


The Price We Pay

by Chi-chi-chimaera (gestalt1)



Series: Star Wars Fic Collection [3]
Category: Solo: A Star Wars Story (2018), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Gen, Imperial!Han, M/M, Slavery, War, a smigeon of Han/Fel?, more tags to be added as fic continues, offscreen non-con, probable Han/Lando later
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-26
Updated: 2018-05-31
Packaged: 2019-05-14 02:32:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14760932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gestalt1/pseuds/Chi-chi-chimaera
Summary: After nearly washing out of Carida Academy, Han is given a second chance to fly for the Empire. It will cost more than he first thought and open his eyes to the true extent of Imperial corruption. At least he has found Qi'ra again, although she too finds herself selling her soul for her own survival. The only way out is through.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The 5 minutes of Solo: A Star Wars Story where it was a war movie were my favourite part. To note also, I have played with the Legends timeline so that Fel is older in this than canon (although is it really canon anymore?), and his career events happen earlier.

**10 BBY - Imperial Academy, Carida, Core Worlds**

The trail of dried blood from Han’s nose down to his upper lip was itching fiercely, but his hands were pinned to the table in front of him by the maglock cuffs so he couldn’t reach far enough to scratch at it. Maybe if he leant down far enough he could twist his wrists round… but there was bound to be someone watching through the mirrored transparisteel window opposite, and he still had some pride. He tried to distract himself instead by focussing on the throb of his broken nose or his bruised ribs, but somehow the damn itching was worse. 

They were letting him stew nicely. Probably talking to Davrin first, getting a nice one-sided story which of course they’d lap up. Davrin Isod’s father was a Planetary Governor in the Core, and Han was gutter-scum from Corellia after all. Who to believe in _that_ situation? 

Han comforted himself with remembering the expression on Davrin’s face when he’d punched him out, after the argument they’d been having got a little heated. Davrin had made a few real nice comments about Han’s high opinion of himself, and a few even nicer ones about his background and his rightful place in the world and well… he had always believed in acting first before your opponent got his licks in. Sadly Davrin had friends, and then Academy Security, to do that for him. 

The door in the wall to his left opened. A tall stick-thin man entered; his hair and moustache were going to grey against his dark skin which sat tight over his bones. Han ducked his head, staring straight at the table in front of him. The warm anger at knowing he’d been in the right about the argument was fading, to be replaced by the cold and certain knowledge that he might have gone too far this time. 

“Commander Vassic, sir,” he said. “I’d stand and salute but…” He tugged against the mag-cuffs and spread his hands to emphasise his point.

Metal screeched on metal as Vassic pulled out the chair opposite Han agonisingly slowly and sat down. He put the datapad he’d been carrying down on the table between them. 

“Would you care to explain yourself Cadet,” Vassic asked, in a voice as cold as the deepest of the Nine Hells. 

Han risked looking up as far as the Commander’s face. It was utterly expressionless. “Cadet Isod and I were having an argument about some of the tactics used recently by the 67th Wing. I might have had some ideas about what they could have been doing differently. He disagreed.”

“And so you broke his jaw?”

Han looked up properly in surprise. “I did?” He was impressed with himself. Apparently back-alley brawling was good for something.

“A hairline crack; nothing that will require significant medical attention,” Vassic replied. “The precise injury is irrelevant. Do you believe that disagreement is justification for violence?”

 _I’m pretty sure the Emperor would say yes,_ Han just managed to stop himself from saying. Something must have shown on his face though, because Commander Vassic frowned slightly. 

“I wish I could describe you as a model student Cadet Solo,” Vassic said, picking up the ‘pad, “but this is not your first incidence of fighting or indeed of speaking out of turn, although I’ll allow that a discussion with a fellow cadet is not the same as attempting to correct an instructor about the finer points of tactics - which I remind you, you are here to _learn_ , not to teach.”

Han stayed silent. He couldn’t think of anything to say in his defence that wouldn’t sound like excuses at this point. He doubted the Commander would accept ‘he insulted me’ as a defence either. 

“You understand what would normally happen to you in this situation Cadet?” Vassic asked him. 

Han was paying enough attention to catch that. “Normally sir?”

Vassic frowned. “ _Normally,_ ” he stressed, “this would be grounds to throw you out of the Carida Academy, no matter how good your grades are. Indeed, if they weren’t so good I suspect you would have been out several infractions ago. You understand? You’d be washed out, demoted down to a ground-pounder Auxiliary fit only to be fed into a meat-grinder in some benighted corner of the galaxy.”

He was clearly waiting for something, so Han nodded and did his best to look contrite. Vassic was clearly not buying that, but the performance seemed to be enough for him. 

“However it seems there is someone out there willing to give you another chance. He’s waiting to give you the sales-pitch. It’s far better than a trouble-maker like you deserves Solo, but I suppose that must be the fabled Corellian luck.”

Vassic rose and left the room quickly. It was hard to tell if that was because he was angry or just bored of the whole affair, but Han didn’t really care. Whatever this other man wanted with him he was going to say yes to it, or lose the best chance he had of being a real pilot - and there was no way in the hells he was going to allow that. 

The next guy through the door was younger than Han had been expecting, pale with dark hair and a little short goatee. His uniform had a crisp newness to it, as did the rank tab on his breast that proclaimed him a Captain. The man sat down in the chair Vassic had just vacated, removing his cap and smoothing a hand over his neat, slicked back hair. He was smiling, just a little upwards twist to the lips. 

“My name is Captain Soontir Fel,” he said, “of the 181st Imperial Fighter Wing.”

It did take Han a little to place the wing, but although there were hundreds in the Imperial Navy some fighter wings were famous and some were infamous. “The Hundred and Eighty Worst?” he asked, before realising it maybe wasn’t such a great idea to insult the guy who was about to give you a job.

Fel sighed. “I’ve just recently joined the Wing,” he said, “and my intention is to whip it into shape. At present you’re right to use that name. I’ve no long-ingrained pride to lose by admitting that, and right now the men and women of the 181st have little pride either. I need bright young pilots that I can mould into the best of the best, in order to show the rest that they can be better than they are. I understand that you’ve a habit of speaking your mind and thinking for yourself - in my mind that’s no bad thing. 

“Of course it will not be easy. Ninety percent of trainees in any Imperial flight school don’t make the cut, and what I have in mind won’t be any usual flight school. You’ll be spending more time out in the void than in the simulator, and washing out with the 181st is more likely to mean being killed than failing an exam.”

“I want to be a pilot sir,” Han said, trying to make sure every ounce of his determination got through in his voice. “I you’re offering me a chance at that, I don’t care about the odds.”

Fel’s smile widened. “That’s what I thought you’d say.” 

\----

Han left Carida on a transport ship with a score of other cadets that Captain Fel had selected. None of them had test-scores as good as Han did, but then as Fel had murmured under his breath to him as they were leaving the detention centre, they would never have let him have Han if they hadn’t been going to chuck him out anyway. The 181st was infamous not famous, and Fel was not _that_ influential in the scheme of things. Only those with not much to lose would be willing to take a job offer that ended with most of them a drifting cloud of ash in the void or worse off than they started. 

Han didn’t really talk much to any of them outside of the usual small-talk. He didn’t know any of them very well, and a childhood on the streets where death was far from uncommon had taught him there was no point in making friends with those who might not be long for this world. Maybe when they had made it through training…

Even though Carida and Manaan, their destination, weren't that far apart in galactic terms it still took a while to get there. First the transport jumped to Alderaan, then continued down the Commenor Run to Commenor itself, switched to the Trellian Trade Run until Rasterous, and finally jumped to Manaan. Han felt like going straight would have been a more efficient use of time, but simple transports weren’t usually loaded with the kind of complicated navigational data that would make that possible. The view wasn’t even a good one when they got there since the shuttle didn’t have a viewport aside from the one in the cockpit. When they finally touched down, Han and the other cadets stumbled out stiff-legged from sitting into the hanger bay of an Imperial Star Destroyer swarming with techs and mechanics and the odd pilot. Banked rows of TIEs rose above them, lining every wall and hanging below the catwalks far above. 

“Welcome to your new home,” Captain Fel told them, striding past with no sign that he’d been sitting down for the past seven hours. “The ISD- _Indubitable_. We call it the _Dubie_ for short, or if you want to get yourself in hot water, the _Dubious_. I mention that only because your new colleagues certainly will, and they might not be so kind as to warn you of the consequences. Now follow me to your new digs and we’ll get you settled in. Reveille is at 0600 tomorrow morning, and then the fun begins.”

\----

**Over Mannan, Pyrshak System, Inner Rim**

Contrary to Captain Fel’s introductory speech, they were in simulators after all for the first few weeks. One of the other cadets had asked Fel about this, to which he had replied; “Hells boy, do you know how much those ships cost? I’m not letting you in one until I know you’re only going to damage yourself, not the TIE.” Which was fair enough. The simulators on board _Indubitable_ were older and clunkier than the ones Han was used to from Carida, but at least initially the programs were the same. Han figured Fel was easing them into things gently, making sure their scores from Carida were actually accurate. It felt like a good boost to his own confidence though, flying rings around the other cadets. Soon though the Captain began to change things up. The sim missions got harder and more challenging, scenarios Han had never seen at the Academy. 

Of course the Academy wasn’t a flight school. The teaching had never been so focused, and he had never been driven so hard. It was exhausting; it was exhilarating. When he collapsed into his bunk at the end of the day he danced through the night skies in a TIE with the green bolts of his cannons painting death across the void. 

Captain Fel wasn’t their only tutor. He was still the Captain of an active Fighter Wing, and the ISD- _Indubitable_ wasn’t at Manaan for the good of their health. He was regularly away on flights planetside, leaving two of the squadron lieutenants in his stead. Both were fierce women who wouldn’t have been out of place on the streets of Corellia, to Han’s mind. Cirin Vaal and Nissora Terok could have been sisters or clones from the way they acted even if they looked nothing alike. Cirin was short, muscular and tan, intricately tattooed up what parts of her arms and neck could usually be seen. Nissora was willowy, and dark-skinned with piercing eyes the colour of ice. Neither of them took any kind of poodoo or laziness from anyone. Han was mostly scared of them, but generally at least a little bit turned on as well. 

Gradually the group of cadets improved even through the tougher sims. Those few who didn’t were packed back onto a shuttle and send back to Carida. Han felt sorry for them, but more than that he was glad not to be them. Through all of this he hadn’t forgotten his purpose. Not just becoming a pilot because he loved to fly, although he did, but saving up enough credits to buy his own ship, go back to Corellia, and find Qi’ra again. 

He would have to go during his shore leave, and he wouldn’t want or ask Qi’ra to join him in the Imperial Navy. But he could get her off planet, hand the ship over to her, and help her find work. They would see each other whenever their jobs allowed, and they’d call each other over the HoloNet every chance they could… Han had fantasised and planned this out a lot over the months on Carida. 

Eventually the live exercises started. The insurrection on Manaan hadn’t really spread out past the boundaries of planetary atmosphere, but that just meant it was safe enough for them to fly where they wanted. The first time Han sat in the cockpit of a real TIE rather than in a sim and felt the power of the engines shudder the frame all around him the wonder and joy rose inside his stomach and almost came bursting out of him in wild laughter like water from a busted mains pipe. He managed to keep it in but he was still grinning like a fool anyways. He stroked the controls in front of him and listened to Fel’s smooth voice over the comms. 

“Don’t get so giddy you’re not paying attention,” Fel was warning him, evidently more than familiar with how most first-timers reacted. “Now, talk through what you’re doing for everyone listening.” Han imagined the faces of his fellow cadets and how they’d react if he mucked it up at this stage. He took a deep breath, started to talk through the process, and engaged the repulsors, bringing the TIE down out of its cradle and in a slow loop towards the open doors of the hanger bay. The TIE slipped out past the mag-shield and into open space. Han dialled off the repulsors and opened up the throttle to the sublights.

The kick of the TIE’s acceleration pressed him back into his seat in a way the sims could never really mimic, and he couldn’t stop a least a little whoop of excitement.

“Cool it kid,” Fel said to him, sounding amused. “Now, you picking up the sensor buoys marking the course you have to run? Head for them. Remember this is just about getting used to the handling of the real thing, nothing more.”

“Yes sir.” Everything about flying like this just felt so much _more_ , more immediate, more exciting, more real. He looped the TIE through a barrel roll before starting in on the course proper. 

He was never giving this up. Not for anything.

\----

“Have you learned how to keep your mouth shut by now Solo?” Captain Fel asked him quietly as they waited for the two senior officers to arrive. “Because believe me your patience is about to be tested.”

“Done pretty well so far sir,” Han whispered back. His uniform had been specially starched for the graduation ceremony and the collar seemed to be carving deep into the flesh of his neck. This would be his first time meeting either the Captain of _Indubitable_ , Rickard Valerin, or the Colonel of the 181st Imperial Fighter Wing, Evir Derricote. Colonel Derricote’s battlefield role was to direct the TIE squadrons from the perspective of a situation overview on board their home Star Destroyer, while Fel’s was to manage the pilots’ care and training and to fly lead in the wing’s Prime Squadron. Outside of the battlefield it seemed that Derricote couldn’t care less about the wing he commanded, leaving everything to Captain Fel. 

Given scuttlebutt about the Colonel, everyone seemed to agree that was for the best in any case. 

“I’ve certainly noted progress compared to your Academy Reputation,” Fel told him, with a dry smile. “But you’re still inclined to backtalk, and these men won’t find it as amusing as I do.”

“I’ll bear that in mind sir,” Han replied. Fel took a short step away from him and stood to attention as at the far side of the hanger doors hissed open and two men and a small retinue of stormtroopers entered. Han snapped to attention himself, and was aware of the rest of the cadets - now full pilots - doing the same. 

The Captain and the Colonel marched over the cleared floor of the hanger towards them, two grey comets with ice-tails of white. They stopped looking over the assembled graduees - ten now from twenty. It was a better pass rate than Fel had claimed, but Han suspected his standards had been lower than he’d wanted. The cadets hadn’t been allowed to mingle much with the main body of the 181st, but they still heard rumours about the casualty lists. This wing did not compare favourably with the Imperial average. They needed warm bodies to fill ships at this point. 

“Men and women, fine soldiers of the Empire,” Captain Valerin began, and launched into a speech full of the usual nonsense Han had gotten used to tuning out at the Academy. He quickly stopped paying attention to it now as well, although it meant he had nothing to distract him from how uncomfortable his uniform was. He mused briefly on the fact that the rank of ‘Captain’ meant something completely different in the Fighter Corps compared to the Navy proper - Captain Valerin far outranked Captain Fel - before tuning back in just long enough to hear something about ‘your glorious deaths in service to the Empire’.

Yeah, great. Just what anyone wanted to hear on the happy occasion of their graduation. 

It seemed like the Captain was winding up his speech and Han held a brief hope that the tedium was over, but then Colonel Derricote was stepping forwards to give his _own_ speech. Han sighed, and caught Fel’s warning glare out of the corner of his eye. 

Eventually the Captain came round to pin their formal ‘wings’ on, to shake their hands and congratulate them on becoming pilots of the Imperial Navy Fighter Corps. Han was congratulated on coming top of his class, and he managed to say something dull rather than the many sarcastic comments that came to mind about the speeches or the graduation ceremony as a whole. 

Then it was over. He was a pilot. The first step towards his goal had been achieved. A long career in the Navy stretched out in front of him, and Han was almost feeling optimistic about it.

\----

Somehow whenever Han had thought about fighting for the Empire he had only ever thought about the flying and not about everything else that it would actually entail. It seemed bizarre now, but he hadn’t ever really thought about killing people. That had been the background, far away and almost unimportant. Even in sims when he’d shot down an enemy it had been a target and he hadn’t considered the pilot whose life he was taking. At Manaan there was nothing to hide behind. No convenient mask of distance to let him pretend. They weren’t battling other fighters here, they were providing air support for the infantry, flying low and slow in goo and mowing down small lines of struggling, running figures that died in many inventive and horrible ways when hit by a starship-rating blaster cannon. 

It wasn’t entirely without its dangers on their side - the insurgents did possess anti-air capabilities - but it felt so one-sided and unfair despite that. Fel noticed, perceptive as always, when Han climbed down out of the TIE’s cockpit with his hands and legs shaking and his stomach threatening to bring up its contents inside the confines of the heavy sealed helmet. 

“Come with me,” he said, and led Han off to a private corner of the hanger, concealed by boxes of parts and massive canisters of Tibanna gas. 

“You with me?” Fel asked, one hand heavy on Han’s shoulder. “Here, in this hanger, not down there?” The pressure of his hand was helping, actually. Han ripped at the seals of his helmet, which opened with a hiss, and he pulled it off his head with a gasp. The air of the hanger was only a little fresher than that inside the pilot’s suit with its meagre life-support systems, but the smell of grease and metal was better than the smell of his own sweat and nausea. 

“I’m here,” he managed to say, gasping. 

“This isn’t what you were trained for, I know,” Fel said. “We don’t have simulations of this, much as it _is_ part of the job sometimes. Maybe I should have remedied that.” He paused, searching for words, and Han almost fell back into panic without that steady, cool voice to fix on. In the moment’s silence he could hear the crash of guns and see the limp bodies flying through the air. It wasn’t death like he’d seen it before. It was something new.

“It shouldn’t be us down there,” Fel continued, keeping his grip tight on Han’s shoulder. Han was aware his own hands were up and clinging tightly onto Fel’s arm, but he couldn’t drag them away. “We should have AT-ATs, heavy cavalry of some kind - there’s no need for air support. We would be better served elsewhere. But we have to do the job that’s put in front of us, understand me Solo.” He shook Han lightly when he made no reply, fixing his eyes with his own. “Understand, Han?”

Han nodded, an unsteady movement, biting down whatever nonsense might have spilled out of him if he’d tried to talk. 

“This will get easier,” Fell said. “Perhaps it will never sit well with you, and that’s as it should be, but it will get easier. That might not be what you need to hear right now but it’s the truth. This is distasteful, yes, but in these circumstances it’s necessary. The lives you take are saving the lives of the soldiers on our side. Think on that, if you can, if you find it helps.”

“Okay,” Han said, nodding, although he felt as though he was drifting somewhere else than his body. He was puppet on strings and he had no idea who was moving them. It didn’t feel like himself. “Okay, I… okay. Thank you sir.”

“Let’s get you back to barracks, hmm,” Fel said. “Spend some time with your wingmates and take your mind off today. See medbay if you can’t sleep.”

Again Han nodded. This hadn’t been how he had imagined it. Was this really the price he had to pay for his freedom, for Qi’ra’s? If so it was too late not to pay it. There was no backing out now.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trapped yet resourceful, Qi'ra tries to find a way out. Who care how many corpses have to pave the way?

**10 BBY - Pleasure yacht _First Light_ , unidentified Mid-Rim planet**

It had been six months standard since she’d been taken from Corellia. That was only Qi’ra’s estimate, but it felt about right. Under the pressure of fear, chaos, uncertainty, time itself became malleable. She had no way to count the days or weeks at first. Things had been going hard for her since Lady Proxima’s enforcers had dragged her back. Her displeasure had been immense. Bad enough that she and Han had tried to leave the planet, worse that they had stolen to do it, and most unforgivable, Han had actually succeeded. 

Proxima had to set an example. Qi’ra was all she had left to work with. 

There was no space for mercy in the underworld, where the system and the safety of structure could only be maintained with respect. Respect was won with fear, fear with violence and brutality. It wasn’t as though any of the consequences had come as a surprise. Ever since she’d ended up on the streets Qi’ra had known how things worked. It had been a gamble, and she had lost. 

The enforcers didn’t break her bones because they didn’t want to kill her while Proxima might yet have gotten some use from her. It didn’t stop them from making a show of it in front of Lady Proxima and everyone else in the den. Qi’ra hadn’t tried to hide her pain from them - she knew how to put on a show as well as anyone else. After a certain point her memories of it became as hazy as most of her memories from just after that time. She had been dragged off into one of the side rooms of the den once they were finished and left to heal up on quarter-rations. Some time later Qi’ra had been woken up by hands on her, came thrashing up out of sleep to find herself being dragged outside, the heavy form of Moloch in his protective armour looming over her. 

“You are paying back what you stole,” he had said once he saw she was awake. 

“How?” Qi’ra had asked. 

“Crimson Dawn pays well for girl-slaves.”

That was the last she’d seen of him or of any of the White Worms. She had been handed over to strangers, bundled like cargo into the hold of a ship with a heavy collar round her neck, and taken away. There had been a journey after that; long with too many stops, changing hands often, a confusion of holding pens and dark rooms and the sharp bite of the surgery when they’d implanted the combined tracking chip and explosive deep under her skin. Finally, after a space of time not measurable by the cycle of light and dark or by meals or by any other method of accounting, she had been given over to the staff of Dryden Vos on the yacht _First Light_. 

Qi’ra hadn’t known anything about Vos when she had arrived here. Despite that she was a quick learner, and she listened. Vos was important; the vessel she had been taken to was sizeable and opulent from prow to stern. The staff that lived and worked upon it was large too. There were singers, musicians, entertainers of various other sorts, cooks, waitstaff, bodyguards, and a final group referred to mostly as ‘the pleasure-slaves’. This despite the fact that even if it wasn’t obvious at first, _everyone_ here was one of Dryden Vos’ slaves. 

Ever since leaving Corellia Qi’ra had been under no illusions as to her fate. She wasn’t blind to her own good looks. Stealing for the White Worms had given her plenty of interesting skills, but most of them weren’t exactly prized in a slave, so there was only one thing she had that a big criminal gang like Crimson Dawn would want; her body. She’d just been thankful that in her journey to the _First Light_ , no-one had tried to use it. Even once she had been delivered to the yacht she was let alone at first. 

One of the other girls, a twi’lek called Lola, had explained things more to her in those first days. “This isn’t Master Vos’ harem,” she had said. “It’s rare for anyone to catch his eye, although when they do it’s either a route to death, or to greater and better things. No, he keeps us around for his guests.”

This had not made Qi’ra feel any more optimistic about the situation she had found herself in. 

Things were better now, of course. Only a little, and more in her hopes than in reality, but she would not look back to what had come before. She wanted to think as little as possible about the past few months - probably months. Who really knew how long? Even horror turned to tedium eventually. The unbearable could, in fact, be borne. She was luckier than some; the cook who had served overdone nerf-stakes, the singers who had fallen out of fashion, the guards who showed even a hint of laziness or who took the idea of assassination into their heads… Qi’ra had seen a lot of people die. Slaves, guests, enemies, allies… if Dryden Vos saw no use in you anymore he killed you. Qi’ra wasn’t even sure if he was doing if for the pleasure of it, or if it simply didn’t occur to him that any other options existed. There was a coldness to him, a blankness behind the eyes that rarely wakened into real feeling. 

Qi’ra had managed to waken it. 

It had been a plan a long time coming, ever since she had heard Lola’s words that first week here. Advancement or death. Given the future lying ahead of her, both options had their merits. Catching Vos’ eye seemed like the best chance she had. Qi’ra had quickly realised that it wouldn’t be easy. It didn’t take much observation to see that Vos was not a man driven by his desires or emotions. Whims, occasionally yes, but his sudden turns to violence seemed to surprise Vos as much as it did anyone else present in the room. Besides that, Qi’ra wasn’t the only pleasure-slave who had fixed onto the same idea. She watched several failed flirtations, trying to work out _why_ they had failed. 

The first chink in the armour was with one of Dryden’s contractors; a scruffy human criminal by the name of Tobias Beckett. Qi’ra didn’t work the room at all of Vos’ parties, so this was the first time she had seen Beckett, but he was apparently a regular and someone that Dryden almost trusted, as far as trust was something he ever extended. When Dryden welcomed him to _First Light_ Qi’ra happened to be standing close enough to see a spark of something real and genuine behind his eyes. Later the same night, when a Hutt Clan assassin tried to seperate Dryden’s head from his shoulders and Beckett shot her in the heart without blinking Qi’ra saw it again. Genuine pleasure and a flame of something else, a warmth in the tiny curl of Dryden’s smile as he watched the assassin writhe and die on the mirror-finish durasteel floor. She began to understand a little more of what Dryden liked, of what interested him. 

It had also given Qi’ra more hope. She could be ruthless, if that was what it took. She could take a life, if it won her a little closer to saving her own. 

So, when _First Light_ was docked on Axilla and the undercover Imperial agent from the Anti-Piracy Bureau offered her a substantial bribe to help him break into the office of Dryden Vos, Qi’ra demurely accepted. Then, once he was inside and had started slicing Dryden’s personal terminal she pulled out the holdout blaster she had lifted from the agent while he’d been distracted by her cleavage and screamed for help. When Dryden arrived she gave it just long enough for him to take in the scene and understand what was going on before she shot the Imperial in the head. 

Well, she had been aiming for the chest, but it was her first time ever firing a blaster so she imagined she could be forgiven that bit.

It had worked well enough. As she had turned and held out the little pistol for Dryden to take from her she had seen the look in his eyes - interest and curiosity - and held back a smirk. She wasn’t surprised when he had taken her hand and asked her name, murmuring in a low voice; “You know, I don’t believe I’ve noticed you before.”

This was just the beginning, Qi’ra understood that. She might have sparked some interest but she still had to keep it going. If he gave her a taste of power and then got bored of her she knew she would be just another corpse for disposal. Yet she had faith in herself. 

She didn’t give much thought to the dead man she had left behind her. She didn’t know him, and he had known the risk he was taking. He had made his choices and she had made hers. 

\----

**ISD- _Indubitable_ , Manaan, Pyrshak System, Inner Rim**

After the panic and horror his first combat mission had left him with Han had no idea how he managed to suit up and get back into the cockpit of a TIE fighter, but he did it. He did it the next time, and then the next and the next and then as Captain Fel had promised it was easier. He pushed all the appalled emotion of it to the back of his mind and didn’t think about it, aside from when he woke up screaming in his bunk at night. He wasn’t the only one. At times he was surprised he could sleep at all, but the grueling pace of the days forced his mind into compliance with sheer weariness. Han woke tired and heaved himself up each morning, scraping through the day on trained instinct rather than rational thought before forcing tasteless Navy food down his throat and finally collapsing back into his bunk-space. He barely had time to think much less talk to the other members of his squadron, and he finally started to appreciate what Fel had been talking about when he said most of them wouldn’t make the cut. Already three of his fellow graduates had eaten dust, shot down by Manaani anti-air defences, and two more were hooked on stims because it was the only way they could still fly. 

Han wasn’t stupid enough to start _that_ habit, but if he didn’t get a real break soon he wouldn’t have much of a choice. 

Luck was on his side again as it turned out. In the morning he headed to his TIE in a mindless haze and found Fel waiting for him - and for the rest of his squadron. “Turn around pilots,” the Captain said. “They’re pulling us out finally. Managed to find a Destroyer free that carries an Army complement a little more suited to this world than us. Back to bed with you all. It’s rest now until they give us our marching orders.”

Han did as he was told, and was thankful. He slept for hours and actually felt like a functioning human being when he woke again. He got up, showered, shaved for the first time in several days, and went to try and find out what was going on.

He found Captain Fel in the general mess hall along with about half of the One-Eighty-First, eating and gossiping with the leisurely place of folk who finally had nothing better to do. Fel was sitting underneath the tattered ‘One-Eighty-Worst’ banner at the far end of the room with a massive mug of caf. The mug wasn’t standard issue, which meant it must be the Captain’s personal property. Han slid onto the bench opposite Fel. 

“Not in the officer’s mess sir?” he asked. He had noticed this habit of Fel’s in the recent past with some vague part of his semi-functional, over-worked brain, but he hadn’t had the mental power to wonder about it until now. 

“Hells no,” Fel replied with a look of disgust. “I have to spend too much time around some of those slime-sucking fools as it is.” Han watched his expression change as he realised he had spoken more freely than he meant to. 

“As bad as all that sir?” he asked, keeping his tone light as though they were discussing the latest holodrama from the core. 

Fel made a face and seemed to decide to continue his unintentional honesty. “There’s a reason this Wing has been allowed to fall into this state,” he said, gesturing at the banner overhead. “Any Commander with an ounce of respect for himself and his soldiers would have seen that thing taken down long ago. I was sent here to rot, not because they really expected me to make things better. The Colonel is a lazy bastard who does the least he can, and the ship’s Captain is about as corrupt as they come.”

“What’s there to be corrupt about out here in the black?” Han asked.

Fel turned a disbelieving gaze towards him. “You’re Corellian kid, don’t try to play the innocent,” he said. “You know well enough I’m sure all the flavours of corruption there are.”

“Perhaps,” Han said. “I could always learn about more though.”

Fel sighed. “Why do I want to tell you this?” he said mostly to himself.

“I just have that kind of face?”

Fel looked exasperated. “Fine,” he said, “but only since I know you’re not a gossip. A braggart at times yes, but not a gossip.” He ignored Han’s hurt expression to continue on - which was fair enough as it was only for show. “Captain Valerin likes to treat his officers to dinner from time to time - nothing wrong with that per se. But I suspected something the moment I saw his quarters. Too nice. He likes luxury and he likes to show off. No way he could pay for all of that on his salary, and for all that his family is well-regarded in the Core it’s a large one that doesn’t have money to throw around on fripperies.”

“So he’s taking bribes?” Han asked, drawing the obvious conclusion. 

Fel nodded. “That’s what I thought, but I didn’t get confirmation until more recently. Valerin doesn’t try that hard to hide it. He doesn’t care. Anyone who finds out, he trickles the money down.”

“Did you…?”

Fel looked disgusted. “I have no interest in what must be blood money. I’m sure normally there would be consequences for my refusal, but Valerin doesn’t have any reason to fear that I’ll rat him out. My career’s in shambles right now and I have no proof. You understand don’t you Solo?”

Han nodded. It was the same situation as he’d been in with Davrin. Nepotism and class were their own kinds of corruption and the Empire ran on them. Still he couldn’t bring himself to share Soontir Fel’s disgust with _Indubitable’s_ Captain, or really even understand it. Han had seen enough of how the Empire ran on Corellia - it was just another gang when it came down to it. The largest one there was, and so the best one to be a part of, but still a gang with all that involved. Of course its officers took bribes. That was how things worked. 

Fel took a gulp of caff. “We’ve been reassigned to the Prindaar system, hunting criminal scum meant to be lairing on one of Antar’s uninhabited moons. Depending on who is paying Valerin off, I suspect we won’t have much success in bringing them to justice. It should be a nice break for the wing. Smooth skies.”

“I hope so sir,” Han replied, with real feeling. 

\----

**ISD- _Indubitable_ , Antar, Prindaar System, Inner Rim**

“Solo,” Captain Fel shouted from the doorway of the bunkroom. “Get your dress greys on and meet me in Hanger Besh. We have a party to go to.”

Han blinked sleep out of his eyes as the rest of the squadron turned to look at him. “Better do what Daddy Fel tells you,” Naren Dom said from the top bunk, dangling her head down over the edge to grin down at him. 

“Please stop calling him that,” Han told her as he got up and headed for his locker. 

“Be less of an officer’s pet then,” she replied, to a number of catcalls from the rest of the pilots. 

“I’m just saying it’s weird and inappropriate,” Han said, pushing hangers aside looking for the dress uniform he hadn’t worn since graduation day. That wasn’t so long ago but it felt as though it had happened a universe away. 

“Cool it Nar,” one of the others said; Lyman Wan, Han thought. “He’s gunning for officer-track is all.” This was a popular bit of scuttlebutt in White Squadron along with the rumour that he was sharing Fel’s bunk. Han didn’t entirely understand how they had come up with either idea although he supposed it was true that the Captain did talk to him more often than most of the pilots. He’d never gotten the impression that Fel wanted to sleep with him though, just that Han was a convenient ear to complain to about the officers that Fel disliked - which was all of them. 

Han finally found the uniform and started stripping off. No privacy amongst the squadron; he had seen all of the other pilots naked by now and had managed to get used to it even if his blushing had caused a lot of laughter and ribbing at first. He dressed quickly and left to find out what all of this was about. 

Captain Fel was waiting for him just inside the hanger. He was in his dress uniform as well with his dark hair slicked back against his skull and the lines of his beard laser-sharp. He was scowling at the Lambda shuttle currently being prepped for launch a little way away. Han jogged up, a little out of breath. 

“What’s going on sir?” he asked. 

“Do you know who has the best combat statistics out of all of the wing?” Fel asked, which didn’t appear to have much to do with anything.

“I couldn’t say,” Han replied, because although Fel was right that he wasn’t shy in talking about himself to people he wanted to impress or sleep with he wasn’t foolish enough to do that with his commanding officer. 

“The two of us,” Fel told him, sounding as though he had barely been paying attention to Han’s answer. “The Captain wants to show us off.” Bitterness laced every word.

“Show us off?” Han asked, looking around warily. “To who?”

“My polite enquiry on that matter didn’t get much of an answer,” Fel said, his voice a tense staccato. “Which means, I suspect, Valerin’s criminal sponsors.”

“Do you have any better idea who they are?” An organisation rich enough to pay off the captain of a Star Destroyer didn’t actually narrow it down as much as you might think. 

“No.” Fel pulled on his cap and strode towards the waiting shuttle. “Come on.”

\----

As the shuttle skimmed over the barren surface of Antar 2 Han began to be able to make out the glint of metal in the distance. As they got closer the shape resolved into that of a vessel - a pleasure yacht. “Wow,” Han said softly, barely aware that he had spoken aloud. It was beautiful; an unusual vertical design of impressive size, dark metal picked out with golden accents and half-concealed heavy cannons lending it a menacing air. Their shuttle came to rest next to it and sent out a docking umbilical. After a few minutes Captain Valerin, Colonel Derricote and several of the bridge officers (identities as much a mystery to Han now as ever) started to make their way out through it. The atmosphere amongst them was relaxed, almost jovial, in stark contrast to Han’s own nervousness. He and Fel were the last ones out, aside from the shuttle pilot who would be remaining with the ship. 

Coming out into the yacht was like passing from night into day. In contrast to the drab grey of the Imperial vessel the yacht was a riot of colour and opulence. They were far from the only guests either. Han scanned the room, falling back on instincts learned in his years with the White Worms. These were dangerous people. Bounty-hunters, pirates, slavers, criminals, smugglers… humans and aliens both. There were entertainers on a central stage crooning the latest popular hits and various servers and waitstaff roaming around with trays of snacks and drinks. Servants or slaves? Could be either. 

“I need a drink,” Fel growled next to him, and swept off into the crowd. The other Imperial officers seemed to be dispersing as well. From how at ease they were here Han was pretty sure this wasn’t their first time at one of these parties. _Just me then,_ he thought to himself, and tried to figure out what to do with himself. 

He was wandering in a slightly lost way trying not to draw attention to himself when someone tapped him on the shoulder. He whirled round, immediately on guard, and it took him a long moment to realise who was in front of him. 

“Qi’ra?” he asked, too stunned to say anything more sensible. 

“Han? What are you doing here?” he whispered back. “What are you even _wearing?_ ”

Han looked down at the stiff uniform and tugged the hem of his tunic straight. “I could ask you the same thing,” he said. “You look great.” She was wearing a really nice dress, something light and breezy, with a heavy necklace draped around her neck. 

Qi’ra swallowed and looked away. She suddenly looked uncomfortable. “Come with me,” she said. “We can go somewhere to talk so long as we both stay in sight.” It seemed a slightly strange thing to say, but Han didn’t protest as Qi’ra led him through the crowd to an alcove at the side of the room. Heavy curtains stretched floor to ceiling, and there seemed to be some kind of sound-dampeners concealed behind their folds. In the shelter of the alcove the noise of singing and talking was muted to a dull background roar. 

“You first,” Qi’ra said to him, folding her arms. “Why are you dressed like an Imp?”

“Uh, because I _am_ an Imp?” Han replied, gesturing to his get-up. “Seemed the best way to get passage off Corellia with Moloch and the other enforcers looking for me. I’ve been saving up my pay - I was going to get enough to buy a ship…” Qi’ra was looking at him disbelievingly. “Hey, it’s not like I care about the Empire’s ideals or whatever,” Han said defensively. “It’s a job.”

“Yes, one you can’t get out of,” Qi’ra hissed back. “I thought at least one of us…” she cut herself off. Han frowned. 

“What do you mean? What are you even doing here? How’d you get off Corellia anyway without Proxima knowing?”

“I didn’t ‘get off’ Corellia,” Qi’ra said, her brow creasing in slight irritation. “Proxima sold me.”

Han stiffened. “You’re a slave?”

Qi’ra turned her wrist towards him. There was a dark red mark there, fairly fresh. A brand. Han recognised it after a few seconds. 

“Crimson Dawn,” he said, quiet horror rising in his stomach. That was who owned this yacht? The ones paying Valerin off? He’d imagined a pretty big gang but not one of the main names of the galaxy. He shook himself internally. Why did he care whose pocket Valerin was in? Qi’ra was here, and she was a slave. 

“I’ll stop saving up for a ship,” he said. “How much were you? If I can save up enough I can buy them out, free you…”

Qi’ra was shaking her head, biting her lip as she did so. “Maybe if you’d come up with the money weeks ago,” she said. “It’s too late for that now. I’ve caught Dryden’s eye; I belong to him now.”

“Who is he?” Han asked quickly. “One of the slavers here? A pirate? A bounty hunter? I’ll challenge him somehow, sabbac, racing, even a duel if I have too…”

“No,” Qi’ra said, looking frustrated. “Dryden Vos. The Crimson Dawn capo here. How can you be here on his yacht and not even know who he is?”

“Oh.” Han realised how dry his throat was suddenly, how his heart was pounding in his chest. He had been trying not to think too hard about the situation, about what it meant that Qi’ra was here, dressed like this, on a ship like this, at a party like this. Now she said she had caught the eye of a major gangster. It wasn’t hard to draw the obvious conclusion. 

“I have to get you out of here,” he said softly. “I’ll… I’ll think of something.”

“There’s no way,” Qi’ra replied. There was something hard in her eyes. “Believe me Han, this is better than it was before. At least now I only have to sleep with one man.”

Curses were crowding up inside Han’s mouth, just kept back by the fierce clench of his jaw. Anger boiled in his chest to accompany all the other sick emotions swirling around in there. He didn’t know what else he might have said in that moment if they hadn’t been interrupted. Someone darted in past the curtains and Han turned, on such a hair-trigger he might have slugged them if he hadn’t seen who it was quickly enough. 

Captain Fel frowned at him. “This isn’t a good place to get distracted,” he said, looking Qi’ra over with a disapproving eye. “We need to go anyway. It’s time for our audience.”

Han looked back at Qi’ra desperately, realising that if he left now he had no idea whether he would ever be in a position to see her again. “Go on,” she said sweetly, a kind of mask or facade dropping down over her. There was no more familiarity in her eyes. “Maybe we’ll meet again sweetheart hmm? What about you, good sir?” she asked, addressing Fel. “Will you be returning to the _First Light_?”

“No offence my lady, but I very much hope not,” Fel said, and dragged Han away.


End file.
